Stalk Watch
by Menthol Pixie
Summary: Dean is in full-blown panic mode by the time he finishes the four hour drive to Palo Alto. Sam hasn't answered any of his dozen phone calls with anything other than one cryptic text message. Quit calling. You won't believe it 'til you see it.
1. Chapter 1

**Stalk Watch**

_A/N: Ah... so this is weird. Never thought I'd write a fic like this but well, I put my own spin on it and here it is. No Wincest or slash at all. Just like the rest of my stories, there is nothing but brotherly love here._

Chapter One

Dean is in full-blown panic mode by the time he finishes the four hour drive to Palo Alto. Sam hasn't answered any of his dozen phone calls with anything other than one cryptic text message.

_Quit calling. You won't believe it 'til you see it._

Add that to the first message – _Need your help. Don't tell Dad. Please come?_ - and yeah, no one can scare the shit out of him like Sammy, even after six months away at his fancy college. Or maybe especially after six months away at his fancy college. Or probably just because it's _Sam._

And of course the elevators broken in the kid's apartment building so he has to drag himself up six flights of stairs, which must count as cruel and unusual punishment seeing as he hasn't even had any coffee yet because Sam's text message got him out of bed and he didn't want to waste even five minutes to get some takeaway because no one, _no one_, can get into trouble like Sam can, and in his line of business, five minutes can make a hell of a difference.

So Dean's kind of pissed off when his frantic knocking on Sam's door is answered by a decidedly un-frantic Sam in sleep sweats and a huge hoodie, looking tired and vaguely nauseous but not as if he's in any imminent danger. But Dean kind of likes the kid so he decides to give Sam a chance to explain before he launches into a rant about how _wrong_ it is to freak him out so badly that he doesn't even make time for coffee.

"Dean," Sam says, his shoulders slumping in relief even as he looks past Dean into the hallway, like some paranoid recluse checking for intruders.

"Dad's not with me," Dean says, in case that's what Sam's worried about but Sam just nods distractedly and motions Dean forward, shutting and locking the door the moment he's inside. He leans back against it as if to block it further.

"Um... hi," he says.

"You got someone after you?" Dean asks, because come on, Sam, he didn't drive four hours to make small talk. They haven't said a word to each other since Sam left for Stanford so this must be important.

"What?" Sam looks startled. "No, not- well, maybe. I don't really know what's, um... shit."

And suddenly Sam bolts past him, tripping over books and a stray shoe as he stumbles into what Dean assumes is the bathroom because a second later he hears Sam start retching.

Okay, well, Dean has no idea what's going on but he does know how to handle a sick Sammy, assuming it hasn't changed much in the last six months. He's starting to calm down now, because it doesn't look like anything's broken or bleeding and there aren't any monsters that he can see. That's good but it doesn't explain why Sam called him out here.

He follows Sam's path to the bathroom and finds the kid on his knees, worshiping the porcelain god. Dean crouches down behind him and slips a hand under Sam's bangs, holding them off his face and checking for fever at the same time. Sam is cool though, trembling slightly as he leans into Dean's touch the way he always has. It feels good, like maybe they can salvage whatever relationship they have left.

"So, what, you texted me 'cause you're sick?" Dean asks when the kid's finished and leaning against the shower stall, sweaty and shivery and playing with the zip of his hoodie without making eye contact. "'cause, ya know, you could have just said so. I would've come."

He really would have. Even after what happened, after standing by as Sam tore down life as he knew it and walked out the door with Dad's ultimatum slashing the family apart like a lightning bolt, Dean would have come. Only reason he hasn't been by already is that he hasn't been all that certain that Sam wants him around. Sometimes, Dean would get out his phone and hover his thumb over Sam's name in his contact list, but he never had the guts to make the call. Only thing worse than a Sam who was gone was a Sam who wanted nothing to do with him, and without the call, he wouldn't have to find out.

"'m not sick," Sam mumbles to the floor.

Dean raises his eyebrows. Seriously, how did Sam get into this fancy college? "Really. You do realize you're doing a pretty good impression of it, right?"

Sam looks up. Dean expects a bitch-face but the kid just looks miserable. "I'm not. It's... there's something wrong with me. Like, our kind of wrong."

Immediately, Dean looks Sam up and down with hunters eyes, a fraction of his earlier panic returning, but whatever it is, he can't see it. Not unless Sam's been cursed with bad fashion sense. Sweatpants and ginormous hoodie in the middle of the day? Geez, no wonder the kid never gets laid. He only looks a tiny bit different from what Dean remembers, his hair a little longer, his face a little thinner. There's nothing Dean can see that makes him think that there's anything wrong with the kid, ignoring the recent vomiting, of course.

Sam drags himself off of the bathroom floor – seriously drags, like it takes a lot of effort – and stumbles back into his messy sitting room before Dean can say anything. Exasperated, he follows.

"Sam, dude, if you want me to help, you gotta tell me what's wrong."

Sam turns to face him, still looking miserable but resigned now. He fingers the zip of his hoodie again. "You're gonna laugh," he states like it's a fact. "I swear, if you laugh, I'm gonna lose it, Dean, so you better not-"

"Whoa." Dean raises his hands in mock surrender. "I get it. No laughing."

Man, what kind of brother does Sam think he is? Like he's gonna laugh at whatever it is that has Sam so freaked. Come on, give him some credit.

Sam watches him from a long moment, chewing on his lip.

"Well?" Dean asks finally, because he's never had the patience for staring contests.

Sam breathes out a huge sigh. "Okay, just..."

"I know, no laughing. Cross my heart and hope to die and all that shit."

Sam doesn't look like he fully trusts him, which is totally an insult, but he stops fiddling with his zipper and tugs it down, letting his hoodie fall open.

Dean does not laugh. His eyes go down to Sam's abdomen, where his t-shirt is straining to cover the bump that used to be the kid's flat stomach, then back up to Sam's face because he's half expecting Sam to be laughing about pranking him – no, definitely not pranking – and finally, back down to the bump.

"Holy shit, Sam," he exclaims to his apparently pregnant little brother, "Does this mean I'm gonna be an uncle?!"

Sam whips his hoodie back in front of his stomach, curling his arms around himself to hold it in place. "It's not fucking funny, Dean!" he yells, "Damn it, I knew I shouldn't have got you to come here. If you're just gonna make stupid jokes every five seconds, you can just get the hell out!"

"Whoa!" Dean actually steps back under Sam's onslaught, chagrined. At least he didn't laugh? "Christ, Sammy, calm down. Who else where you gonna get to help? Dad?"

"Calm down?" Sam echoes, looking vaguely hysterical now, and ignoring Dean's astute reasoning. "How the hell am I supposed to calm down, Dean? I'm supposed to be in class. I'm supposed to be _normal_."

Sam spins away from him and drops heavily onto the worn out couch, which has such an ugly floral pattern that it should belong in one of the out-dated motels Dean frequents, and Dean's left standing there like an idiot with, honestly, no idea what to do next. He's never seen anything like this before. He doesn't think Dad's come up against something like this either, and even if he had, Dean's pretty sure that Sam wouldn't be receptive to the idea of calling him for advice.

"Sammy-"

"It's_ Sam_," Sam snaps but his voice is all weird and, shit-

"Are you _crying_?" He doesn't mean to sound so incredulous but seriously, what? Tears aren't Sam's usual response to confrontation.

"Shut up," Sam mutters, ducking his head. Dean sees him raise a hand to rub at his face. Aw, man.

"Hey," Dean says quietly, suddenly feeling like a massive asshole, as he rounds to couch. "It's okay. We'll figure this out. It's not that bad."

He drops to a crouch in front of his brother, patting Sam's knee awkwardly. Sam huffs a wet laugh.

"Not that bad?" He looks at Dean through his bangs. "Dean, I'm _pregnant_."

"Okay, so it's kind of bad," Dean concedes, his eyes automatically drawn to the bump. Now that the initial shock is wearing off, Dean can see a whole lot of problems in their future. The implications are setting in. "But we're going to sort this out," he continues, because of course they are. It's what they do.

Sam takes a breath, wiping both hands over his face. He exhales another one of those not-real laughs. "I dunno what's wrong with me."

Dean raises his eyebrows. "Uh, I could take a guess," he says tentatively.

"Shuddup," Sam says without heat. "Um, I've been researching but..."

"Well, lets have a look then," Dean says.

Sam motions to the coffee table that Dean had originally assumed was laden with schoolwork. "It's all there but I can't find anything that tells me how to fix this."

"Maybe you just need a second pair of eyes," Dean suggest comfortingly. And a brain that's not fried with pregnancy hormones, he thinks as he turns to the table, piled with books and handwritten notes. He shuffles through some of it. Sam's been thorough, as always. There's information on fertility goddesses, talismans, and crystals, along with Djinns and succubi and a few other creatures that can bend reality at their will. Mostly though, it's spells and hex breakers. Dean can tell that Sam's come to the conclusion that the most probable answer is witchcraft, and Dean has to agree. This has witch written all over it. Not that they can count the other stuff out but it's a good starting point, at least.

"Hm," he muses over a book of ancient curses and curse breakers. "Maybe if we modified some of these..."

"I tried a couple of them," Sam admits sheepishly, and rightly so because if you're going to mess around with magick, you should have a partner to help out in case things go wrong. Dean lets it slide because Sammy was desperate and, honestly, he just doesn't really want to risk setting off another display of waterworks.

"We should back up. When did this start?" He turns away from the books to look at Sam, thinking about how big the bump is. He must be five months gone by now.

"Only about a month ago," Sam says. "First I just felt sick, like I'd caught a bug or something, but then this started." He gestures at his stomach helplessly.

"You waited a month to call me?" Dean asks incredulously. Unsupervised witchcraft he can let go but the kid definitely should have asked for help sooner.

"I know, I'm sorry." Sam looks down, chastised. "But at first, I didn't even know what was happening and then I thought I could fix it if I did some research, and I didn't know if you would... I mean, if Dad found out..."

Dean wonders what it is Sam thinks Dad would do. He's not sure himself. There would definitely be a lecture, which could easily evolve into a mighty battle between his father and younger brother. Would Dad try to convince Sam to come back? Use this as an example of why Sam needs to stick with them and the family business? He doesn't know so he just shakes his head. "And Dad thought I was the one to watch when it came to teenage pregnancy. I'm going to assume that you haven't actually slept with anyone, right? Seeing as that would obviously be the first lead."

Sam rolls his eyes but he looks more tired than offended. "Obviously."

Dean's eyes narrow. "Have you been sleeping at all?"

There are dark circles under Sam's eyes, a crease in his forehead that indicated concentration is being dulled by fatigue. Sam shoots him a classic bitch-face. "Kind of hard to get comfortable with what feels like a bowling ball in my stomach, plus I have to keep getting up to pee or throw up-"

"Okay, enough details," Dean cuts him off before he hears any more about what Sam does in the bathroom. "Well, first order of business, you need rest. Go get some sleep and I'll look over the rest of this stuff."

Sam looks like he might protest but either Dean's pointed look or his own exhaustion gets the better of him and instead he nods. Bracing one hand on the arm of the couch, he wearily pushes himself up. He sways a little when he's upright – which reinforces Dean's opinion of a nap being a good idea – but brushes it off and wanders to his bedroom. He pauses in the doorway to look back over his shoulder.

"Thanks for coming, Dean," he says, and then shuts the door before Dean has time to call him a moron for thinking he wouldn't.

**To be continued...**


	2. Chapter 2

**Stalk Watch**

Summary: Dean wakes up on the couch, still sitting up and fully clothed, to the sound of Sam retching in the bathroom.

_A/N: Okay... confession time. I kind of went on auto-pilot while I was finding a title for this. I googled euphemisms for pregnancy and was looking though a message board, came across someone's comment "Stalk Watch", thought that sounded good, copied, pasted, posted... then realized that that is not how you spell "Stork". But "Stalk" does make it sound more ominous so lets pretend it's a play on words... yeah, that's totally how I meant it..._

**Chapter Two**

Dean wakes up on the couch, still sitting up and fully clothed, to the sound of Sam retching in the bathroom.

There's a crick in his neck and his back is aching. He scratches at the stubble on his chin and yawns before stumbling sleepily to the kitchen, blinking in the early morning light. He slips some bread into the toaster and coaxes Sam's ancient coffee machine to life while he waits for it to pop.

He borrowed Sam's laptop last night for some related research that the kid probably didn't bother looking into, like how to ease morning sickness. For someone as smart as Sam, his brother can be a total idiot sometimes.

When the toast springs up, he leaves it bare, like the website said, and makes a mental note to buy some peppermint tea later. He finds a plate in one of the cupboards, sets the toast on it, leaves the coffee machine bubbling away and heads for the bathroom, knocking once on the ajar door before pushing it open and stepping inside.

Sam seems to have finished throwing up. He's panting, leaning against the shower stall again, huddled on the floor. He doesn't look any more rested than he did yesterday, even though he slept straight through since around midday, and his stomach is definitely bigger, straining against the thin, white t-shirt he's wearing. A strip of swollen skin peeks out between the waistband of his boxers and the hem of his shirt.

"You look like crap," Dean says as he settles down on the floor beside Sam. He holds out the plate. "Eat this. You'll feel better."

Sam wrinkles his nose at it and gives his head a quick shake. "Nuh-uh."

"Trust me. I looked it up. Guaranteed cure for morning sickness." Okay, maybe it's not guaranteed but Sam doesn't need to know that. Maybe he can get a placebo effect from it if the dry toast fails.

Sam looks at the plate doubtfully. "Really?"

"Really." Dean nods encouragingly. "Just go slow."

Sam eats the toast in tiny nibbles, testing each bite as it goes down, and it does stay in his stomach, despite the couple of times that Dean thinks it's about to make a reappearance. By the time Sam's finished the first slice, he's looking a little less rocky.

"Did you find anything?" he asks finally, so Dean has to admit that he hasn't but Sam's made a good start and he can work with what they've got.

"You're sure this is our kind of thing?" Dean asks, a little hesitantly. "It's definitely not something medical? Like a -" Jesus, he hopes not. "-tumour or something?"

Sam shakes his head and reaches for the small trash bin that's tucked behind the toilet. He riffles through it for a moment then pulls out a thin, white stick and holds it up for Dean to see the tiny pink lines at one end. "Two lines mean pregnant," he says resignedly, before tossing it back in the bin.

"Okay." Dean blows out a breath. "And there definitely aren't any hex bags? You searched everywhere?"

Sam laughs, a little hysterically. "I kind of tore the place apart looking for one."

Dean nods. If Sam says he's sure, then he's sure. "Well then, I think you're right about it being witchcraft. There doesn't have to be a hex bag for some bad mojo to be carried out. I need details from you – your friends and where to find them, places you go, your classes, everything." He pauses. He can't imagine it but he has to ask. "I don't suppose you have any enemies?"

Sam shakes his head, his hair falling over his eyes. "I don't even have many friends."

Ouch. Well, that sucks. Makes sense though; Sammy's never been that great at forming fast friendships. Dean thinks it has something to do with all the moving around they did as kids. Eventually, Sam just gave up trying to make connections. But for some reason, Dean thought college would be different. All this time, he figured the kid was having the time of his life here, but maybe he was wrong.

"It's a weird thing to curse me with," Sam says. "Even if I did have enemies, why this?"

Good point. "You piss off any feminists?" Dean suggests.

"No, of course not."

"Hm," Dean says noncommittally. Maybe Sam managed to piss someone off without realizing it, or someone holds a grudge for some imagined slight. He's about to suggest this when a knock on the door cuts him off.

Sam's eyes widen. "We can't let anyone see me like this."

"Well, duh," Dean says, already pushing himself to his feet. "I'll go get rid of them. You just stay here and finish the toast."

The earthy aroma coming from the kitchen reminds him of the coffee he put on earlier and he makes a mental note to grab a cup on his way back to Sam. He reaches the door and pulls it open just enough to poke his head out, one hand on the pistol tucked into the back of his jeans, just in case.

The girl on the other side doesn't look threatening, which really means nothing because anyone can use witchcraft. She's tall, with long blond hair that tumbles over her shoulders in waves, biting her bottom lip a little nervously as she clutches a notebook to her chest. Her eyes widen in surprise when she sees Dean.

"Yeah?" he asks impatiently. The more time he spends talking to her, the less time he has to figure out how to fix Sam, and it's obvious that this pregnancy is not going to take the usual nine months so time is of the essence here.

"I'm looking for Sam," she says hesitantly. "This is the right place, isn't it? Brady said..."

"Sam's sick," Dean says bluntly. "What do you want?"

She's thrown by his abruptness but he doesn't care, too busy searching for any hint of malicious glee at the news of Sam being ill. If she is a witch, she's a good actress. She looks nothing but concerned as she holds out the notebook.

"I took notes for him in class, figured he'd need them." Her eyes slide over him, narrowing slightly. "Who are you anyway?"

Dean takes the notebook and lets himself relax a little. She seems harmless and none of his hunters instincts have been activated. She's just a friend of Sam's, trying to help out. He regrets his rudeness, a little, but he still wants her to leave. "I'm Dean, Sam's brother."

"Oh," the girl says, looking him up and down like this means something to her. Sam has talked about him to this girl, obviously, and he can't tell if it was good things or bad things. Did Sam tell her about all the years he's spent looking out for the kid or was his silence the night Sam left so much of a betrayal that he's only spoken of that? He doesn't think he wants to know, just in case... He knows that it hurt Sam but the sudden revelation of Stanford, Sam _leaving_, had hurt him too. Maybe he made it worse by not calling but he was waiting to see if Sam would call first, and the more time that passed, the harder it got to pick up the phone. Now, he's thinking that Sam was doing the exact same thing. He's thinking that he should have checked up on the kid because, mystical pregnancy aside, he doesn't seem all that happy. Dean's only just starting to understand that leaving hurt Sam too. Maybe it hasn't stopped hurting.

"And you are..." Dean prompts, because he doesn't really want to think about how much he's screwed up anymore. Maybe he can fix that while he's here, but not while he's stuck talking to this chick.

"Jess," she answers, now trying to look past him. The door and Dean block her view into the room. Frustrated, she meets his eye again. "Is Sam okay? He's missed the last week of classes."

"Bad 'flu," Dean says, adding a grimace to his expression for effect. "He'll be fine but he's not exactly fit for company." Part of it's true, at least.

Jess winces in sympathy. "That sucks. Uh," she looks embarrassed suddenly, "I wrote my number in the notebook. Can you ask him to text me?"

It hits Dean then. This girl might just be a friend but she definitely wants to be more than that. Now that he's looking, he can see it in the flush of her cheeks, her genuinely worried eyes, her disappointment at Sam's absence. He'd bet the Impala that Sam has no idea – kid's always been clueless like that – and wonders if he'd be happier if he knew.

"Sure," he says, regretting his rudeness even more now that he knows Sam has a chance with Jess. He tries to make up for it with a weak, "Um, nice to meet you."

"You too," Jess says, without much sincerity.

It's with relief that he shuts the door behind her retreating figure. For a moment, he'd been worried she might insist on coming in and checking on Sam herself.

Dean remembers to pour himself a coffee on the way back to the bathroom, tucking the notebook under his arm so he has a free hand to open the door. Sam's right where he left him, on the floor, but he looks a little less nauseous now. He looks up at Dean expectantly. "Who was it?"

Dean sits down on the floor and passes Sam the notebook . "Girl named Jess. She took notes for you."

"Jess was here?" Sam sounds surprised and kind of pleased as he looks at the notebook in his hands. "What did you tell her?"

"That you have the 'flu. She wants you to text her."

"I don't have her number."

"She wrote it in there." Dean has to tell him. Who knows how long it will take Sam to figure it out? "She has the hots for you, you know."

He expects Sam to laugh as if Dean's teasing him but instead he says, "Really?" while doing a really crappy job at pretending to sound only vaguely interested. So Sammy likes her too.

"Really," Dean says, shooting Sam a knowing smirk.

Sam gives up on acting with a sigh. "Well, that's good to know but it's not like I can do anything about it now." He scrubs a hand down his face and changes the subject. "Do I get coffee?"

"Nope. The website said to avoid it in the mornings." He looks at his cup a little guiltily, but there's no way he can solve this mystery without it. "Well, actually it said you should avoid caffeine for the whole pregnancy but I don't think that really applies to you. You can have some later."

Sam pouts but seems to accept it. "The toast helped," he admits grudgingly.

"Did you even bother to look into how to take care of yourself while you're pregnant?" Dean asks disapprovingly, and gets a scowl from Sam in response.

"No, I was too busy trying to figure out why the hell I'm pregnant in the first place."

Dean rolls his eyes, "You're an idiot."

"Shut u-" Sam breaks off with a gasp.

"What? You gonna puke again?" Maybe just the smell of coffee is too much for Sam right now. Dean quickly sets his cup down by the door, as far from Sam as he can reach without getting up.

"No. No, I – oh my God." And then he grabs Dean's hand and places it forcefully on his swollen stomach, just to the left of his bellybutton, and okay, that's weird, Sam.

"What are you-?" Dean starts, then stops because now he feels it too. First, a soft flutter of movement, then a firmer, wobbly kick. Dean looks down and sees the skin stretch slightly under his hand.

"Do you feel that?" Sam demands, his voice high pitched with panic. "_Do you feel that_?"

"Yes, I feel it," Dean gasps, his mind racing, going back to yesterdays concerns. Is there actually something growing in there? If so... what?"

"Oh my God," Sam moans, releasing Dean's hand to clench his fingers in his hair. "Why is this happening to me? _How_ is this happening to me? I can't do this, I don't even, I can't-"

"Okay, calm down," Dean orders, because Sam's breathing is getting as choppy as his sentences and Dean recognizes this from half a dozen occurrences over the the last couple of years before Sam left. "Sam, breathe."

Sam shakes his head frantically. Dean shifts so he's kneeling in front of Sam and reaches up to untangle his fingers from his hair, grasping his hands tightly.

"Sam, look at me." It takes a moment but Sam lifts his head to obey, eyes wide with naked fear, still gasping like there's not enough air to go around. "It's going to be okay," Dean says firmly. "I promise. You need to calm down and we'll figure this out. We're going to fix this."

"This isn't, supposed, to happen, to me," Sam chokes out and fuck, now Dean's worried he's going to cry again. "Meant to, be normal."

"Don't think about that now. Just breathe, kiddo, with me, look." He takes an exaggerated breath in and releases it slowly. "Like that. Come on."

Sam makes a pathetic, shaky attempt at copying him. Dean nods approvingly. "Good. Again."

He breathes with Sam this time, and it's better. Sam gets a little more air than before, so they sit on the bathroom floor for a while and synchronize their breathing. Dean remembers the last time they did this, about two weeks before Sam left, in the aftermath of a werewolf hunt that had almost gotten the better of them. He remembers Sam dropping to his knees beside the man with the silver bullet in his heart, shot from Sam's own gun mere seconds before sharp teeth had a chance to clamp around Dean's throat. Sam's concern for him had vanished when it because clear that he was unharmed and he'd turned his attention to the dying victim, hidden his face behind his hair, and whispered an apology.

It was hours later, after Dad had left for a drink at the nearest bar, that Sam had broken down. Dean should have seen college coming. Sam always felt everything too deep.

"You still have panic attacks, huh?" Dean says after Sam's finally relaxed against the shower stall and not looking quite so ashen, breathing just a little shaky.

"Only when I'm pregnant," Sam jokes lamely, pushing his damp hair out of his face.

"You gonna be okay while I go check things out?" Dean asks doubtfully. He doesn't want to leave Sam like this – he'd rather stay here and make toast and tea and know that Sam's still breathing – but he won't get any closer to finding out how this happened and how to fix it by sitting around holding Sam's hair back while he pukes.

"Yeah," Sam says, "I'll be fine. That was just... a surprise." He looks down at his stomach like it's this foreign thing that just happens to be attached to him. "You don't think... there isn't actually a baby."

It's possible there's a baby_ something _in there but Dean can't think of any reason why bringing up monster babies would be a good idea right now, when Sam's only just calmed down, so he lies and hopes it's the truth. "There can't be. Everything's still all right downstairs, isn't it? No changes?"

Sam blushes and chokes out a laugh. "No changes," he confirms, and thank God for that because Dean doesn't know what he'd do if Sam suddenly grew a vagina.

**To be continued...**


	3. Chapter 3

**Stalk Watch**

**Chapter Three**

Sam really doesn't have many friends, which is both depressing and helpful because at least it saves time. Dean tracks down Brady first because he's the only guy Sam actually considers a friend rather than an acquaintance. He's kind of friends with the guys Brady hangs out with but Dean gets the impression that those are friendships of convenience and Sam only knows them because Brady does. None of them are helpful.

Dean roams the campus for a while and checks out the coffee shop Sam frequents. Turns out Jess works there. No wonder Sammy goes so often. Dean briefly considers apologizing to her but she starts whispering something to her co-worker when she catches sight of him and he figures the damage has already been done. He doesn't have time for it anyway because he needs to check out the New Age store Sam told him about, which turns out to be just a little less flaky than he expected. The herbs are the real deal at least.

He chats to the girl working the counter for a bit, making up a story about a wife who's having trouble falling pregnant. The girl – Erica – steers him towards a little book on fertility spells and a couple of crystals that Dean's pretty sure will do exactly nothing but he buys them anyway, just to keep up appearances. Erica's looking at him kind of strange after his, maybe not so subtle, queries about whether anyone else has been in asking about pregnancy spells lately. She says no and tells him that most of her customers are students hoping to make their own luck with herbs and crystals instead of studying.

After the store, he makes a fruitless trip to the library to see if he can find anything like this happening in the past but if this is a recurring problem then no one else has gone public with it. Dean's just gonna go ahead and assume this is a first because he's pretty sure any normal guy who woke up in Sam's condition would have rushed to the hospital and surely there would be records of a spontaneous male pregnancy.

Finally, he stops by the supermarket and picks up some ginger ale, peppermint tea, and crackers, along with a selection of fruit that Sam will hopefully keep down. Whatever is in Sam's stomach is growing fast and probably sucking up a whole bunch of nutrients as it does.

Overall, he's feeling pretty useless as he heads back to Sam's apartment. Half the day is gone and he's no closer to figuring things out than he was this morning. There are no new leads, no suspects and no guarantee that this is even caused by witchcraft. There are creatures out there that use humans to reproduce but it's always with females. Men just aren't designed for it. Anyway, surely Sam would remember getting knocked up by a monster, right? Right. It must be witchcraft.

He unlocks the door with Sam's key and finds his brother sitting bent over on the edge of the couch with his head in his hands.

"You all right, Sammy?" he asks as he double-checks that the door is locked behind him.

"Yeah," Sam says, entirely unconvincingly. "Find anything?"

Dean grimaces. "Not yet," he admits, dropping the bag of groceries on the coffee table. "What's wrong?"

"It's nothing," Sam says, straightening up with a wince. "My back hurts, that's all."

"Bound to happen with you're carrying that bowling ball around in your stomach," Dean says. At least he can do something about this. "Move over then."

Sam frowns up at him questioningly so Dean rolls his eyes and pushes Sam until there's enough space for him to squeeze in behind.

"What are you doing?" Sam asks as Dean flexes his fingers.

"I'm rubbing your back, and I swear, if you try to turn this into a chick flick moment, I'm gonna strike back with every pregnancy joke I can think of." He places his fingers on the small of Sam's back and begins to rub in firm circles, massaging out the tense muscles. He adds 'heat packs' to his mental shopping list. "No sex noises either," he adds.

"'kay," Sam agrees. He's curled over his stomach, head in his hands again. Dean rubs his back for a while in silence, thinking about how freaking happy he is that he's not a girl and doesn't have to worry about going through this, provided, of course, that mystical male pregnancy doesn't strike twice.

"It's speeding up," Sam says quietly.

"You think so?" Dean cranes his neck to the side to get a look. The bump ripples and Sam flinches. "It been moving a lot?"

"Yeah," Sam sighs. "Like once it started, it won't stop."

"Does it feel..." Dean was going to say 'human' but what the hell does a human baby feel like when it's at home? Sam seems to read his mind.

"I don't know. It's not tearing out my insides, at least. It doesn't hurt. It's just uncomfortable."

Thank you, Sam, for the mental image of some creature ripping up your insides. Dean totally won't have nightmares about that tonight.

"Should we try another counter-curse?" Sam asks.

Dean frowns at the books still spread over the coffee table. "It would work better if we knew which curse we were countering."

"I know." Sam huffs a frustrated sigh. "But we have to do _something_. This is like having a time bomb strapped to me. What's going to happen when nine months is up?"

"I don't know, but we're not going to find out. We still have time."

"Not enough of it though." Sam shakes his head. "I think we need more herbs. I used up most of the stuff I have during the first few spells I tried."

"You couldn't have told me that this morning before I went out?"

"I didn't think of it then. I swear, this is messing up my head. I can't concentrate properly on anything."

"People call that 'baby brain'," Dean says, thinking back to the website he looked at. "Something to do with all the extra hormones, I think. Everything seems to be to do with extra hormones."

"Well, it sucks," Sam says emphatically. Dean bets it does; Sammy's so used to quick thinking.

"How's your back?"

"Better. Thanks."

Dean clambers out from behind Sam, shaking his head fondly. "The things I do for you."

They make a list of herbs for Dean to pick up in the morning, meticulously recording which counter-curses seem the most promising and how much of which herbs they need to use in each spell so they can be sure they have enough of everything. It's a long, tedious process and Dean is relieved when it's over and he can escape to the kitchen to try to think of something to make for dinner that Sam will be able to keep down.

His relief is short-lived, however, because he's barely opened the fridge when three sharp knocks on the door interrupt his search. He hears Sam curse under his breath and abandons the kitchen, heading for the door. He crosses paths with Sam as the kid heads for the bathroom to hide – and now that he's standing up Dean can tell that the bump is definitely bigger than this morning, like it's shoved two weeks worth of growth into a day, and for the first time, Dean sees something else. The light falls on Sam's face, accentuating his cheekbones, sharper than they were yesterday, and Dean realizes with a thrill of fear that the bump isn't just growing; it's stealing weight off of his brother to do so. Add Sam's all-day morning sickness into it and the kid's going to waste away to nothing in no time.

Dean waits until he hears the lock in the bathroom being twisted into place before he opens the door. Jess stands in the hallway. Her blonde hair is pulled back into a ponytail and without the abundant curls to steal his focus, he notices how green her eyes are, almost glowing as she narrows them at him, arms folded over her chest. The way she holds herself, tense and determined, lets Dean know that she's ready for a fight of some sort. Maybe she's going to tell him off for his behavior yesterday?

"I want to see Sam," she demands though, in a tone that gives Dean the impression that most people don't argue with her.

"He's sick," Dean frowns, planting his feet and hoping like hell that she doesn't try to push past him. "I already told you that."

"Right, he's _sick_," Jess snaps sarcastically. "If he's so sick, why were you stalking around campus, asking questions about him, trying to find out details about his life, instead of looking after him?" She jabs an accusing finger at him. "Sam barely mentions you or his family and suddenly you show up here acting like you're hot shit. You think I haven't figured out that whatever you and his Dad did to him is the reason he left? I don't know what kind of fucked up family you are but I'm not letting you mess up what he has here, and if you've hurt him-"

"Whoa!" Dean raises his arms as if he can physically hold back her rage. "I haven't hurt Sam! Just calm down, okay? You've got it all wrong."

"_Calm down?_" Jess exclaims shrilly. "Who the fuck _are_ you? You don't look anything like Sam and you don't know anything about him, judging by the questions you've been asking everyone. So if you're not his brother and Sam's not sick then what the hell are you doing here and where the hell is Sam?" She slips her hand into her pocket. "I've got pepper spray and the police on speed dial, and if I don't see Sam in ten seconds, I swear I'll-"

"Jesus Christ, I _am_ Sam's brother!" Dean tries to protest, backing up just a little. He's pretty sure she's not lying about the pepper spray or the cops and he can't think of any way to get her to leave without proving to her that he hasn't done anything to Sam. "Look, you can come in, but if you catch the 'flu from hell, it's not my fault." He steps back and holds the door open.

Those green eyes squint warily at him and Dean can tell that Jess is clenching the pepper spray in anticipation as she steps into the apartment, taking a path that curves around him so she's always out of his reach.

"Sam?" she calls anxiously. Looking over her shoulder, Dean realizes the old spell books and their notes are still on the coffee table. This isn't going at all how he'd like it to but hopefully Jess is too preoccupied to notice.

"He's in the bathroom," Dean says, at the same time as Sam calls out, "Jess?" in a rather convincing fake croak.

"Sam, are you okay?" Jess asks, taking a couple of steps towards the bathroom before she remembers that she's supposed to be watching Dean and stops so she can keep him in her line of sight.

"Urgh, kind of?" Sam replies, adding a little misery to his voice. "I've got the 'flu."

Jess wavers uncertainly, her confidence visibly dropping. The hand in her pocket clenches and un-clenches. Her eyes slide over Dean a little guiltily but she's not quite ready to let it go. "Who's the guy out here?"

There's a pause from the bathroom. Dean guesses that Sam's confused because he knows Dean and Jess have already met. "It's Dean, my brother. Didn't you meet him yesterday?"

"Yeah, I did..." Jess says, "He hasn't done anything to you?"

"What?" Sam sounds completely baffled now, so maybe he hasn't been so harsh in his stories about his family, maybe Jess just got the wrong end of the stick. "No. Jess, are_ you_ okay?"

Dean can see the exact moment Jess is convinced because she turns bright red and stares wide-eyed at him for what feels like an eternity.

"Oh my God," she finally stammers, pulling her hand out of her pocket quickly. "I'm so sorry. It's just, something didn't feel right yesterday, and then you were asking questions about Sam and I hadn't seen him... um, at least I didn't pepper spray you?"

Dean gives her one of his disarming smiles. He's more impressed than offended anyway. Girl's got guts. "Don't worry about it," he says, "It's nice to know Sam's got friends willing to take on kidnappers for him."

Dean doesn't know how it's possible but Jess turns even redder, right to the tips of her ears and spreading down her chest. There's something completely adorable about her blushing, in contrast with the fearless girl who knocked on the door. She'd be so good for Sam, he's sure of it.

"I should go." She's already heading for the door. "See you when you feel better, Sam," she calls over her shoulder, sending Dean one more apologetic look before she escapes into the hallway outside.

Sam's peeking round the bathroom door as soon as Dean's twisted the lock into place. "What was that about?"

"She was here to rescue your damsel in distress ass," Dean says, a smirk breaking out on his face now that the crisis has been averted.

"What?" Sam frowns at him, confusion creasing his forehead.

"I guess I wasn't as subtle as I thought today. She got suspicious about me going round asking questions, thought I was kidnapping you or something." He tries not to wonder what exactly Sam has told her about him and Dad, and winks at Sam instead. "She's a keeper, Sammy. Willing to take me on with nothing but pepper spray and a cellphone just to make sure you were okay."

Now Sammy's turning red. "We're not dating," he says self-consciously. "She's just a friend."

Dean shakes his head. How can Sam possibly be so oblivious? "Trust me, she definitely wants to be more than friends. If you don't ask her out when this is sorted, I'm gonna hit you."

Sam shoots him a bitch-face. "That's not very nice."

"Neither is leaving her hanging. You do like her, right?" Of course Sammy likes her. Dean just wants to hear him say it so he won't have an excuse not to go for it after they've fixed him. Kid tends to get kind of star-struck when he likes someone, and the more Dean sees of Jess, the more determined he is to make sure something happens.

"Well, yeah," Sam says, ducking his head a little, embarrassed. "Jess is... awesome. You really think she likes me? _Like_ like?"

"Are we in high school? Yes, Sam, she _like _likes you."

Sam takes a minute to process that, looks torn between happiness and despair. Dean's pretty sure he's finally got the kid convinced though, so that's something.

Despair wins in the end though. "Why are we even talking about this?" he asks despondently. "There's nothing I can do about it. I don't even know if..."

"If what?" Dean narrows his eyes.

"Nothing." Sam shakes his head and dismisses the subject. "It doesn't matter. We need to focus on the counter-curses."

"First thing tomorrow, kid. We'll get you all fixed up."

**To be continued...**


	4. Chapter 4

**Stalk Watch **

**Chapter Four**

They have mac and cheese for dinner, which makes Dean think of old motel rooms and Dad away on hunts, a smaller version of himself cooking for a tiny version of Sam. Dean's pretty sure Sam's thinking of it too. He's distracted when he sets his empty bowl down and settles back against the couch cushions, not even pretending to watch the TV. One of his hands rubs slow circles over his stomach, almost unconsciously, and Dean's kind of disturbed by how much the gesture reminds him of pregnant chicks he's seen, always touching their bumps. He tries to ignore it but it's bothering him for some reason, maybe because it seems kind of... loving.

"Do you realize you're doing that?" he asks finally.

"Hm?" Sam looks up from what had apparently been a state of deep thought – damn kid always thinks too much – and follows Dean's line of sight down to the hand on his stomach. "Oh, uh... it seems to make it stop moving so much. Like it puts it to sleep," he says uncertainly.

"Weird," Dean frowns, "Fucking witchcraft, man."

Sam doesn't agree and lapse back into silence like Dean had hoped. Of course, Sam can't help but ask questions Dean doesn't know the answer to.

"What if it _is_ a real baby? A real,_ human_ baby?" he asks through a curtain of hair. He's still rubbing those slow circles and maybe there's a hint of hope in his voice which makes Dean want to clench his teeth because he _cannot_ deal with it if Sam is bonding with a monster. And even if a human baby could be considered one of the better outcomes, it still leaves the problem of how the thing will get out.

"It's not," Dean says firmly. "It's just an intricate curse."

"But what if it's not?" Sam presses. "What if there's actually something growing?"

Dean runs a flustered hand through his hair. Surely Sam doesn't want a baby? "If there is something growing in there, I really doubt that it's human."

Sam jerks his hand away from his stomach, flinching hard, even though Dean knows that he's considered the possibility himself.

"Sorry," Dean says, cringing. "I'm not trying to freak you out but... guys don't just get pregnant, Sammy. We need to think logically, the only real possibilities are a curse or a monster."

"I guess," Sam admits quietly. He bites his lip, twisting his hands together anxiously. "You don't think I could have been cursed with a real pregnancy?"

Dean doesn't but he mills it over for a while anyway because he gets the feeling that Sam doesn't want knee-jerk reactions from him. "It would take some serious magick to put a real baby in there. Where would it even grow? It's not like you have a uterus." God, he hopes Sam doesn't have a uterus. "A curse makes the most sense. It grows too fast to be human and I've never heard of a monster that impregnates men. Someone's messing with you for some reason."

"But what's the reason?" Sam asks. "I can't figure it out. Why would someone do this?"

And that is the million dollar question.

XXX

Sam is throwing up yet again when Dean wakes the next morning. He threw up last night as well, because of course Sam has the worlds suckiest morning sickness. Why the hell do they call it morning sickness anyway, when it's actually whenever-the-hell-it-wants sickness? It says so, in not so many words, on the websites Dean's been looking at. It also says it usually clears up after the first twelve weeks, and Sammy's way past that in cursed-pregnancy weeks, though Dean gathers that it's all the hormones that cause the nausea and at the rate the thing's growing all that shit's gotta be going crazy so no wonder Sam's so sick. But apparently some women are even hospitalized because of it so that gives Dean something else to worry about on top of everything.

The clock in the kitchen reads 6:32AM when Dean stumbles in to snag the ginger ale and crackers. Sam sounds horrific enough for Dean to forgo the coffee for now and head straight for the bathroom with his morning sickness cures.

"You all right in there, Sammy?" he asks as he nudges the door open with his foot, stopping dead in his tracks as he lays eyes on his brother. Sam was right about the process speeding up, horribly, horribly right. He's gained another two months overnight easy, his t-shirt hitched up almost to his chest, unable to contain the swelling, and Dean sees their time limit for fixing this shrink before his eyes. "Sonuvabitch."

Sam's still retching fruitlessly, obscenely large stomach pressed against the toilet bowl as his body curls around it, spasms running up his too-visible spine with every heave. The bigger the bump grows, the more Sammy shrinks, like the thing is literally siphoning off his weight, stealing his nutrients. At a glance, Dean can see that his arms are skinnier, bones sharpening under deflating flesh. If this goes on much longer there'll be nothing left of Sam.

Dean sets the ginger ale and crackers down by the sink and wets a washcloth under the tap, crossing the small space to crouch beside Sam. "Hey, kiddo, it doesn't look like you've got any more to throw up. Just breathe through it, okay?"

Sam gags a few more times but between them he manages to take in some shaky breaths that seem to help a little. He's quivering from the strain, and it looks like staying upright is a task that's almost too much for him. He looks ready to pass out at any moment. Dean gently wipes the sweat and tears from his face and smooths his hair back, feeling inadequate and so incredibly out of his depth. Sam moans an exhausted, miserable sound. Dean winces in sympathy.

"It's okay, you're okay," he babbles uselessly. He tries to get Sam to sit back and rest against the shower stall but Sam shakes his head and retches painfully again. Not even stomach acid is coming up now.

"Shit," Dean mutters to himself, stretching across the room to retrieve the ginger ale and crackers from the sink. "It's okay. Here, drink some of this." He opens the ginger ale and holds it out to Sam.

"Nuh-uh," Sam chokes out. "Can't."

"It'll help," Dean insists. "Just sip it, a little bit at a time."

Sam ignores him and the ginger ale, folding his arms over the rim of the toilet and resting his head on them, terrifyingly close to crying as he looks at his stomach.

"It's bigger," he whispers despairingly.

"Yeah," Dean replies, eyes automatically dropping to the bump. A ripple of movement has him fighting the urge to recoil, imagining teeth and claws, and a thrill of panic shivers up his back. "We're fixing this today though, don't worry."

"Don't worry," Sam echoes incredulously, and then he really does burst into tears, fuck.

Sam's too nauseous for crying though, it sets him off gagging again and he has to curl back over the toilet bowl, heaving violently enough that Dean's worried he might puke up a lung. He rubs Sam's back, feeling useless and stupid because he can't think of a single thing to say to make Sam feel better.

"Just breathe," he rambles anyway, "You're okay, just breathe."

"I hate this," Sam mumbles, when he's managed to gain control of himself and is only gagging occasionally, taking the washcloth from Dean so he can wipe his face himself. Dean finally gets a good look at him and he doesn't like what he sees. Sam's face is ashen and starting to look gaunt, his eyes bloodshot and ringed with dark purple bags. His hair is sodden with sweat, which is at least _kind of_ good because if it wasn't, it would be a sure sign that the kid's seriously dehydrated, but all up, he looks like utter crap. "I want my life back."

"I know, kiddo," Dean sympathizes as he helps Sam lean back against the shower stall and offers up the ginger ale again. "Now drink. You need to stop throwing up before you get seriously sick."

Sam obeys this time, either feeling too sick or too tired or just too overwhelmed to protest. Dean sits with him on the floor as he takes tiny, careful sips and nibbles warily on a single cracker, until he starts to lose the sickly green tinge and stops swallowing convulsively every few seconds.

"Better?" Dean asks.

Sam nods slowly. "I think so."

"You ready to move this party to the couch?" Or any room where the sour scent of vomit isn't likely to set the kid off again.

"'kay."

Getting Sam up without jerking him around too much is damn near impossible but they manage it after two aborted attempts and one almost-puking incident. Sam's balance is shot, his legs close to buckling under the weight of his stomach as they stagger to the couch, and he doesn't argue when Dean makes him lie down, which tells Dean exactly how awful he's feeling.

Once Sam is settled, Dean finds a straw and replaces the half-drunk ginger ale with a cup of water. "Keep that down and I'll make you a fruit smoothie."

Even with his eyes closed, Sam can bitch-face at him It's obvious that the kid just wants to sleep but Dean has to go out as soon as the shops open and he can't risk Sam getting any sicker than he already is.

"I'm serious, Sam. This whole morning sickness shit can be dangerous and I can't exactly take you to hospital."

"I don't need a hospital," Sam says wearily, opening his eyes.

"Not yet, but you will if you don't keep your fluids up." Dean puts on his most serious face to drive the point home and Sam obediently takes a careful sip, just as Dean's cell phone starts to ring. Dean fishes it out of his jacket, draped over the arm of the couch, and looks at the caller ID. Dad.

"Hang on a sec," he tells Sam as he heads for the kitchen for a little privacy to deal with this. "And drink that water."

In the kitchen, he grabs the coffee pitcher and hits answer on his phone, tucking it between his ear and shoulder as he sets up the coffee machine. "Hello?"

"Dean. Finished up yet?"

"Not yet, sir."

"I need your help here. It looks like the werewolf I'm hunting is part of a pack."

Crap. "I just need another couple of days."

"You said you were hunting a ghost. How long does it take you to burn some bones?" Barely concealed frustration is leaking into Dad's voice now.

"It's attached itself to something," Dean lies quickly. "I just need some time to figure out what."

"You've had almost a week, Dean," Dad says sternly, and yeah, if this was actually a ghost, he'd be done by now. He doesn't know what to say.

Dad sighs. Dean imagines him with his jaw clenched, breath hissing out between his teeth in exasperation. "Is it a girl?"

"What? No. There's no girl." Unless you count Sammy. But seriously, does Dad really think he'd skip a hunt over a girl? Dad should know Dean would never leave him without back up unless he had a good reason – oh shit.

"It's Sam, isn't it." Dad says. He's not asking. Of course he's figured it out. Dean flips a switch and coffee starts dribbling into the pitcher. Before he can think of something to say – and really, what can he say? Dad's caught him on a lie and there's no way he can talk his way out of this – Dad continues.

"Is he okay?"

"I'm working on it," Dean says evasively.

"So no," Dad surmises. "Are you in Palo Alto? I'll come meet you."

"No, Dad, it's okay. I can handle this."

There's a long silence on Dad's end and Dean realizes that he's just messed up again.

"He doesn't want me there," Dad says flatly.

Damn it, he can't deal with this right now. "It's not like that," Dean tries to explain but he can't think of any explanation that's not the truth or an accusation ("You told him to never come back.") so he just leaves it hanging pathetically.

"Call me when you're finished," Dad says eventually, just as flat. "We need to deal with the werewolves."

"Yes, sir."

There's a beat where Dean's sure Dad wants to say something, ask for details, or maybe repeat that age old order, "Look after Sammy", but then it's over and Dean's left with the dial tone beeping in his ear, thinking about how much of a huge, gigantic mess this all is, starting from the moment Sammy announced he was leaving for Stanford and Dad threw that ultimatum at him, to now with the kid suffering on the couch while Dean tries, and fails, to mend hurt feelings and generally flounders around trying to figure out how to fix Sam. If those counter-curses don't work...

He shakes his head and sets his phone down on the bench. It'll work. It has to. He pours himself a coffee and makes sure he looks confident and together before heading back to the living room.

Sam's had maybe two sips of water in the time Dean's been on the phone, which is troubling because at this rate it'll take the kid all day to finish it, but at least he hasn't turned green again. He seems more asleep than awake now so Dean lets him doze while he drinks his coffee – it beats answering questions about who was on the phone – and doesn't wake him until after he's dressed and ready to go.

Sam mutters something incoherent as Dean gently shakes him awake, blinking up at him blearily through his tangled hair.

"I gotta go," Dean says, "And you need to drink more water."

"Mmkay."

"Your phone's on the coffee table. Call me if there are any new developments, okay? Are you hearing me?"

"Yeah, yeah." Sam pushes himself up a little to show how alert he is, which isn't very impressive seeing as he can hardly keep his eyes open.

"Do you need anything?"

Sam huffs out a sigh. "An abortion."

"Good thing I've always been pro-choice. One magickal abortion coming up."

**To be continued...**


	5. Chapter 5

**Stalk Watch**

_A/N: This is up much later than I originally intended but unfortunately, I've received some rather bad news health-wise and it's taking some getting used to. Only one more chapter after this and hopefully I'll manage to get it up soon._

**Chapter Five**

Dean crinkles his nose distastefully as he enters the New Age store and is hit by the powerful scent of incense burning unventilated, the glare of hundreds of multi-coloured trinkets and crystals overwhelming in the small space they're crammed into. He's always hated these places, either because of the ridiculous knick-knacks they pass off as powerful or because of the real stuff that gets mixed in, available to any idiot. Sure, he's glad that the place has the herbs they need for the counter-curses but he can't help wondering whether they'd need them at all if this shop didn't stock them in the first place.

He strides over to the display of little plastic bags, determined to get this over with as quickly as possible.

"Back again?" a cheery voice asks over his shoulder as he's picking out some sandalwood. He turns to see the same college-aged girl who was working last time. Aside from the pentacle hanging from a chain around her neck, she doesn't seem the type to be working in a place like this. Dean always expects some old woman in floaty clothes, trying to look mystical. Erica, he remembers now.

"Uh, yeah, just picking up some stuff."

Erica's eyes skim over his purchases and a frown forms between her eyebrows. "For your wife? I don't think you need those for fertility."

Dean forces a smile and shrugs. "I just get what she asks for."

Erica shakes her head, concern clear in her eyes. "Those are for curse-breaking. Unless she thinks there's dark magic stopping her from falling pregnant-"

"That's exactly what she thinks," Dean jumps in, seeing a chance and taking it. "I think it's silly, to be honest, but if it will get her to stop stressing out, what harm can it do?"

He snags some candles and heads towards the counter, leaving her no choice but to follow. He just wants to get these herbs and go, the faster the better. He doesn't exactly mean to be rude but small talk with shop assistants isn't in his schedule.

Erica huffs a little sigh as she rounds the glass cabinets of crystals and jewelery that make up the service desk, irritated fingers flicking a stray lock of dark hair over her shoulder. "Look, most of the stuff here is harmless; all these pretty statues and dream-catchers. But you're messing with real magic with those herbs. Curses aren't just for story-books. Maybe your wife's being over-dramatic but maybe she's not. I'd keep that in mind if I were you."

Dean pretends to nod thoughtfully, hopefully doing a good job of hiding his frustration at being schooled by someone who probably only knows a tiny fraction of what he knows. "Thanks for the advise."

"No problem," Erica says stiffly as she grudgingly bags his purchases. She hesitates before rolling her eyes at herself and grabs a scrap of paper and a pen. "I know you think this is ridiculous but just in case, this is my number. If you need any help with the curse-breaking, don't hesitate to call. I'm only working until midday." She passes over the bag of herbs and candles, along with the piece of paper. "Good luck."

"Thanks," Dean says, stuffing the phone number into his wallet. "I'll let my wife know."

XXX

Sam, for once obedient, is still on the couch when Dean returns and the glass of water is empty. He's half asleep but obviously too uncomfortable for any real rest, hands resting on the ever-growing bump. Dean is certain that it's bigger than when he left, Sam's face paler, cheekbones sharper, and he wonders whether the lack of movement is because of his orders or simply because Sam physically can't get up with all that extra _something_ in his stomach, draining his energy.

"Did you get everything?" Sam asks, rubbing sleep out of his eyes.

"Of course. Won't be long now and you'll be back to normal," Dean says confidently, placing the bag down on the coffee table.

Sam laboriously pushes himself up onto his elbow, apparently as close to a sitting position as he can get without help, and even that drains more colour from his face. "What do you want me to do?"

"Rest," Dean says shortly, shooting Sam a warning glance. "I've got candles to anoint and that's a one man job."

"I can do something else then," Sam tries to insist but there is no way Dean is letting the kid do anything while he looks like he's about to pass out.

"Seriously, Sam, I got this." First though, he goes and refills Sam's glass of water. May as well hydrate him as much as possible while he can keep it down. He grabs another ginger ale too, in case Sam starts feeling nauseous again, and brings them back to the sitting room.

"Drink," he orders, placing the items in front of Sam. "You do any more throwing up while I was gone?"

Sam shakes his head. "I feel better, I think. Not nauseous anyway, just tired and sore."

"Well, that's an improvement, at least," Dean notes. He sits down cross-legged on the floor and takes the candles out of his bag. Slipping his knife free of his ankle strap, he starts by carving banishing pentagrams into the wax.

"We haven't talked about the other possibility," Sam says quietly.

Because Dean doesn't know what to do about that one.

"These spells won't get rid of a monster, Dean."

"Lets look at this logically," Dean says. "If you haven't gotten laid recently, there's basically no way something could have knocked you up." Unless there's a creature that doesn't need sex to reproduce, or it's method of sex isn't the same as humans, or it somehow made Sam oblivious to the whole thing. Damn it, there are too many_ maybe_s and _what if_s. One thing at a time.

"It's a spell. We just need to break it," Dean says. "And if it's not, we'll figure that out next."

He's already looked up how to perform a c_esarean_-section online, in the darkest hours of the night when he was sure Sam was asleep, and his imagination was running wild. Better safe than sorry and all that crap, not that he thinks performing a c-section in Sam's apartment without anesthetic or the proper training is safe...

Sam falls silent and Dean focuses on his task. It's tedious work and he needs all his concentration to makes sure his carvings are exact. It takes nearly ten minutes for each candle, carefully sliding the blade up and down, then mixing oils to anoint each one while muttering a blessing. Sam watches and sips his water, occasionally wincing and frowning down at his stomach, probably trying to convince whatever is in there to stop moving around so much through thought alone.

"Done," Dean says finally, setting the last candle down. His fingers are slippery with oil and he's going to smell like a New Age store for days. This better be worth it. "You okay to move this?" He raps his knuckles on the coffee table; the easiest thing to move, just so Sam won't feel useless. "I'll push the couch back."

"That whole 'no heavy lifting' thing is only for people who are actually pregnant," Sam says as he hauls himself to his feet. Dean watches warily, but he only sways a little and doesn't look any closer to passing out or throwing up than he did while lying down.

"You might tear a muscle or something." Dean rolls his eyes dismissively. "Just humour me."

Sam shoots him a bitch-face but he does grab the table and drag it out of the way while Dean shoves back the couch, leaving them with a clear patch of carpet. It's small but it will fit Sam and that's all they need.

Dean goes and grabs some plates from the kitchen to place under the candles, and a big steel dish which he fills with coals, before bringing it all back to the sitting room and handing everything to Sam.

"You set this stuff up and I'll get the herbs ready," he says, picking up the bag of herb packets and heading to the kitchen again.

He uses a food processor to grind the sandalwood, frankincense, myrrh, and Dragon's blood into a powder, which makes him smirk a little.

"Modern witchcraft," he murmurs to himself, amused despite the seriousness of the situation. Thank God he doesn't have to waste time working with a mortar and pestle.

His smile drops when he encounters Sam again, however. The candles are lit, set in four corners to represent North, East, South and West, along with their corresponding elements. The bowl is set in the middle, the coals shining a brilliant red and sending an orange glow over Sam's face, which somehow makes him look more exhausted and frightened than Dean remembers him looking just a moment ago. He's kneeling on the floor before the bowl, stiff with tension, chewing anxiously on his lower lip as one hand clutches his swollen stomach.

"Ready?" Dean asks, the enormity (no pun intended) of the problem hitting him again.

Sam nods tightly. He takes a deep breath and holds his hand out for the herbs. His face twitches in slight amusement at the food processor bowl but it's only a flicker amongst the anxiety.

Dean feels his own nerves start to get the better on him, now that there's nothing for him to do but watch. Witchcraft creeps him out, even when it's necessary. He'd feel better if he could do the spell but of course it has to be Sam sending the bad mojo back where it came from. He stands outside the circle, torn between wanting to pace out his nervous energy and staying close to Sam. Sam wins, of course. Dean watches closely as his brother starts the spell, the Latin rolling off his tongue just as easily and fluently as it had when Dad would quiz him before he left for college. Sam always has been good at languages; Dean's not sure if it's because of his freaky-smart brain or the fact that he was basically raised speaking Latin but he doesn't even sound out of practice. Only once does he pause, frowning, to glance at his stomach, breath hitching a little before he quickly carries on, finishing the chant in a rush. He scoops up a handful of herbs and lets them scatter on the hot coals.

For an instant, a bright blue flames flares up from the bowl and Dean feels a relief tingle in his chest, but the unnatural light burns away quickly and there's no sudden change in Sam's physique.

Sam looks to him uncertainly and they both wait to see if maybe the spell's just off to a slow start but the seconds tick by and the only thing that happens is one of the candles coming free from the wax that held it to the plate. It topples slowly, spilling a stream of wax across the carpet. Dean quickly bends and squashes the flame between his fingertips before the apartment catches fire.

Sam deflates, dropping his head into his hands. "I am so screwed."

"We'll try the other one," Dean says, already heading for the books spread out on the discarded coffee table.

"Why didn't it work?" Sam says, maybe to himself because he's not looking at Dean. He's staring at the glowing coals, trying to figure out what went wrong. "It was supposed to work."

"We just need to find the right spell," Dean says reassuringly. Sam doesn't look reassured.

"But maybe it's not a curse," he says miserably, running a frustrated hand down his face.

"We've already been through this, Sam. It has to be a curse."

"We're running out of time," Sam snaps, with another one of those winces that seem to be becoming a habit, one hand automatically moving to his stomach as his breath stutters and, with a sick rush of dread, Dean realizes what's happening.

"You're having contractions," he gasps, unable to keep the horror from his voice.

Sam looks up at him sharply. "No, I'm not," he denies, but his face is still lined with pain, making a lie of his words. "It's just moving weird or something. I'm not."

"Sonuvabitch," Dean swears, dropping an ancient book onto the coffee table with far less care than he should be taking. "When did they start?"

"They're not contractions!" Sam insists desperately. Dean can read him like an open book though and he can tell that Sam's been trying to convince himself that they're nothing for a while and now he's close to the point where he won't be able to deny it any longer.

Dean's mind is racing, frantically searching for all the information he read about labour, but all he's coming up with is a bunch of swear words and the phrase 'what do I do?' repeating over and over.

"Look, it stopped," Sam says, pushing himself shakily to his feet. "It was just rolling over. I'm fine."

"Contractions are supposed to stop, Sam!" Dean exclaims, feeling hysteria rise in his chest. He clutches at the arm of the couch and forces himself to take a couple of deep breaths. Panicking will not help, he tells himself firmly. He needs to stay level-headed for Sam's sake.

"Sammy," he tries again, working to keep his voice calm and steady, "I really need you to be straight with me so I can deal with this. When did they start?"

Sam stares at him for a long moment before he appears to wilt, denial giving way to fear. He drops his gaze to the bump, straining against his t-shirt. "This morning, after you left."

This morning? Dean can't stop the admonishment that springs to his lips. "Jesus, Sam, I told you to call me if anything happened!"

"Nothing happened," Sam snaps defensively. "It just felt like cramps. I didn't even realize they might be something else until after you got back and they started getting worse. How the fuck am I supposed to know what contractions feel like?"

"Okay, okay." Dean has to take another deep breath but it doesn't help in the slightest. He runs his hands through his hair in agitation. He's drawing a blank here. "Fuck, I don't know what to do, Sammy. Maybe we should call Dad."

"No!" Sam looks almost more terrified at the suggestion than he is about the contractions, wide eyes immediately pleading with Dean, and he looks so young under all that hair, and so freaked out, and Dean has never been good at denying his brother anything.

"Okay, fine, we won't call Dad, but you have to do as I say," Dean concedes, wondering whether he's always this much of an idiot or if it's just when Sam's around. "And right now you need to lie the fuck down and, I don't know, cross your legs or something."

Sam looks at him incredulously. "Cross my legs? There is no way anything is getting out from between my legs, Dean!"

"Just lie down!" Dean snaps. "I'm setting up another spell."

He grabs up the book he had dropped and starts flipping through pages, searching for their plan B spell, the one he got herbs for just in case the first one didn't work, which it didn't, and Sam's in freaking labour so this _has to work_.

Except... it makes no sense that the first one – and the ones Sam tried before calling him – didn't work. If this is a curse then it should have been broken. Which means it's probably not a curse. Which means it's probably a monster.

**To be continued**


	6. Chapter 6

**Stalk Watch**

**Dedicated to Kazluvsbooks, for being a wonderful person. Thank you!**

**Also, to the other wonderful people who have messaged me and offered support. You are all amazing and I am so grateful to have you in my life. Thank you all!**

**A/N: Blah blah blah, this is late for a multitude of reasons; school/kindy holidays, health problems, birthdays, real life, etc **

**But hey, I just realized there's going to be a seventh chapter when I thought there were only six so uh, yay for more, right?**

**Chapter Six**

The second counter-curse is – surprise, surprise – as anti-climactic as the first, and by the time they realize this, Sam's contractions are barely ten minutes apart and impossible for him to hide. Dean tries to keep him lying down but he won't, or can't. Instead he perches on the edge of the couch, bent over as much as the bump will allow, rocking slightly through each one.

"You're tensing up," Dean says, "Stop tensing up."

Sam glares at him, face flushed, strands of sweaty hair sticking to his forehead. "You try doing this without tensing up," he grits out.

"I'm serious," Dean insists, thinking back to all his research. "You're making it hurt more. You need to relax."

"I'm in _labour_," Sam cries. "I can't relax!" He pushes up from the couch, contraction over, and starts pacing the room, and Dean is sure that he read something about that making labour speed up so Jesus, Sam, sit the hell down. "What are we gonna do now?"

Dean takes Sam's vacated seat on the couch, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees as he thinks. "Okay, look, we need to cover all the possibilities now," he says seriously. He doesn't want to be having this conversation _at all_ but there's something about Sam being in pain that helps to center him, give him the focus he needs to think in a crisis. Sam calls it Big Brother Mode. Dean just thinks of it as Fix Whatever's Wrong with Sam Now. And he won't be helping Sam by brushing aside possibilities he doesn't want to deal with. "First is that this curse has to run it's course and in a few hours, this will end by itself." That's the best scenario they've got, even if Sam looks a little faint at the idea of this lasting that long. "But the second possibility... if there's something in there, it needs a way out."

Sam stops dead in his tracks and stark terror flashes in his eyes. Dean knows that Sam's thought about this already but considering the possibility in private and having your brother admit that he might have to slice you open are two completely different things.

"That's worst case scenario," Dean continues quickly. "We probably won't need to go that far but, just in case, we should be ready."

"Do you even know how to perform a cesarean?" Sam asks, his voice rising an octave, and Dean can just_ see _the panic attack starting and he doesn't think that will mix well with contractions.

"You think I'd suggest it if I didn't?" he says, with far, far more confidence than he feels. No matter how he looks at it, cutting Sam open is the absolute last thing he wants to do, aside from letting some kind of creature tear it's way out. "I need to go get the med kit from the car. I won't be long. You gonna be okay?"

"No," Sam grimaces, doubling over as a fresh contraction ripples through his stomach. "Ow, fuck, that hurts, _shitshitshit_, ow!"

Dean's off the couch and by his side in an instant. "We've got to get you off your feet. Come on." He grabs Sam's arm to steer him to the couch but Sam's fingers clamp down on his wrist with enough force that he thinks he can feel bones grinding together, so no, Sam's not going anywhere just yet. "Okay, change of plans," he says through clenched teeth. "Just breathe through it. It'll be over in a minute."

"That's too long!" Sam gasps. "I can't do this, I'm not designed for this, ow,_ fuck!_" And now he's crying and he's still not breathing through it like he should, still not making any effort to relax, and Dean vows that he will never, ever be sloppy about using protection because he wouldn't wish this on his worst enemy. Jesus, how to women do this?

"Surely you've had worse than this," Dean tries, hoping that a distraction will at least be of some use. "What about that time you broke both your legs falling off that cliff a few years ago? That was worse, right?"

Sam shakes his head desperately, moaning out a thin agonized sound between sobs, and okay, maybe he's right because Dean's starting to think that his wrist might be hurting more than that did, caught in Sam's death-grip, so this must be a whole new level of pain, and there's only one more thing Dean can think of to try.

"Get it together, Sam!" he barks, "Women do this all the time, and you're just making things worse for yourself. Fucking calm down and focus."

Sam flinches, peering up at him with wounded eyes but he stops panicking and sucks in a breath like it's an involuntary reflex. It almost is, after a lifetime of listening to Dad give orders in the same tone. Dean isn't Dad though and he knows there's a time for giving Sam orders and a time to give Sam reassurances, something Dad always seemed to mess up when dealing with the kid.

"That's it," he says encouragingly. "Now out, slowly. You can do this. You just need to calm down. Freaking out is not gonna help, kiddo. It's gonna stop hurting in a minute, then you can have a break, okay? Just breathe."

Dean babbles until Sam's hand stops trying to crush the bones in his wrist and slowly, tentatively, he straightens up, one hand still curled around his stomach.

"Better?" Dean asks. Kid's still shaky and a little breathless but it seems like they've managed to avoid the panic attack, at least.

"Yeah," Sam murmurs. He moves his hand from Dean's arm to wipe his face, a tinge of embarrassment in his voice. Dean considers reassuring him by pointing out that he sure as hell wouldn't be handling this constant stream of contractions well either but he thinks that maybe it's not such a good idea to remind Sam that he's gonna have to do this again in a few minutes and it's just gonna get worse, from what Dean understands. Instead he just leads Sam to the couch, where the kid sinks into the cushions with relief, letting his head fall back and eyelids sink closed as he takes a few steadying breaths.

"I still need to run to the car," Dean says, "There's painkillers in the kit too – good ones."

Sam cracks his eyes open. "What if it's human though? That might hurt it."

Dean pauses. They've already gone through this and the chances of it being human are tiny, at best. He looks at Sam's arms, protectively curled over the bump, and wonders, if Sam's hormones are going crazy enough to give him morning sickness, could those hormones that help with bonding be at work here too? Surely Sam doesn't really want a baby. What would he do with it when he's in class? How would he explain where it came from?

"Sam," he says carefully. "We need to work with the most likely options. You know what we're probably dealing with here and the odds of this ending in bundle of joy are practically non-existent."

Sam is quiet for a long moment. "Yeah," he says finally. "I guess I just want it to be something that doesn't have claws."

Dean's not convinced that's all Sam wants but what can he do? He wishes he could stay to offer more comfort but he really does need to get the med kit and anyway, there's nothing he can say that will help if Sam wants a baby that doesn't exist. "I'll be right back. Just stay here and remember to breathe if another one hits while I'm gone."

Sam nods dismally. Dean hovers for another few seconds before he works up the strength to walk out while Sam's in this condition. He has to be stern with himself. Sooner he leaves, the sooner he can get back and if he goes fast, he might make it before the next contraction.

'Walk' is a bit of an understatement. He hits the hallway at a jog and speeds up the second he's got room to maneuver without slamming into furniture. He's practically flying in his attempt to get back to Sam as soon as possible, which is probably why he doesn't see the girl until he smacks into her, sending his car keys and her stack of books tumbling to the floor.

"Shit, sorry," he says automatically. He's more frustrated than he is sorry because this is just going to make his trip take longer, but he grabs his keys and starts collecting up the books anyway because he's not a complete asshole.

"Oh, Dean, right?" says a familiar voice, just as Dean reads the title of the aged book in his hands. He straightens slowly, his mind buzzing as the pieces fall together. He should have figured it out earlier.

Erica, the girl from the New Age shop, who looked at him oddly when he came in asking questions, who has access to and knowledge of a variety of magickal substances, is reaching out to retrieve her book on fertility magick from his hand.

"It's you," he says aloud, stunned, his hand automatically reaching for the guns tucked into the back of his jeans.

Erica's smile falters as she catches sight of his face. "From earlier, at the shop," she says uncertainly, falling back a step. "Is everything okay?"

A sneer tugs at the corners of Dean's lips, a prickle of rage settling at the top of his spine at the fact that she has the audacity to keep up the facade now that he's seen the book. Does she think he's stupid? "No," he growls, "But you already knew that, didn't you?"

Her face twists in confusion. "How would I know that?" she asks. "Do you need some help?" She sounds a lot less sure of herself with every word and she's inching backwards now. She looks set to run until her eyes flicker down to the book Dean's holding. He takes a step forward, closing some of the gap.

"What's this?" he demands, waving it in her face.

"Be careful with that!" Erica protests. "It's my grandmothers. It's really old."

"Oh I bet it is," Dean seethes, "Witchcraft run in the family, does it? Why the hell did you curse my brother?"

"Your brother...?" she asks faintly, looking around for a way out. "I thought you said... No, I didn't curse anyone. What are you talking about?"

"You want to see what I'm talking about?" Dean snarls, grabbing her by the wrist and dragging her towards Sam's door.

"What are you doing?" Erica cries, terror bleeding into her tone as she twists and pulls at her trapped arm. "Help! Someone-"

Dean swings the door open and shoves her into Sam's apartment. She stumbles and her yelling cuts off abruptly, eyes widening as her gaze lands on Sam, who's horrified expression mirrors hers.

"What the hell is she doing here?" Sam exclaims as Dean quickly shuts and locks the door, keeping her wrist gripped tightly in his hand. Sam wraps his arms around his stomach, as if he can somehow hide how obviously pregnant he is.

"She's the witch," Dean says grimly, holding up the book, at the same time as Erica shrieks, "_What the fuck?!_"

"Undo it," Dean orders her sharply. "I don't know what the hell you're playing at with this shit but it needs to stop, _now_."

"Oh my God," Erica squeaks, shrinking away from Dean. "This isn't- holy shit, this isn't what was meant to happen." Her free hand reaches up and clasps her pentagram necklace in a clear nervous gesture, her eyes wide with horror and disbelief as Sam folds over with another contraction, his hands white-knuckled on the couch cushion, a low moan of pain escaping from his lips. Dean is torn between keeping Erica in his grasp and going to comfort Sam. The girl isn't trying to get away now. She simply seems dumbstruck and she's not reacting at all like Dean thought she would. What does she mean, this isn't what was meant to happen?

"You better start talking," he growls. "As you can see, we're on a time limit. So what did you do?"

Erica's feet move in an anxious little dance. "Not this. I didn't mean to do this!" she claims desperately. "It's just, I tried to..." Her shoulders slump in defeat and suddenly she looks like she might cry. "I can't have children," she whispers.

Dean loosens his grip on her arm as that sinks in, suddenly aware of how tightly he's been holding her. She looks so devastated, he thinks she might actually be telling the truth and maybe this is just a terrible mistake rather than a malicious attack, but either way, Sam got caught in the crossfire and it's her fault.

"So you did a spell?" he surmises, eyebrows raised to display his disapproval.

"You don't understand what it's like," Erica says, her face crumpling even more, "to be told that the one thing you've always wanted is the one thing you can never have. When I found that book in the back of my grandmother's shop, I just thought... I mean, what's the worst that could happen?"

Dean's eyebrows are in danger of disappearing into his hairline. He thrusts a hand towards Sam angrily. "_This_ is the worst that could happen. You might want a baby but Sam sure as hell didn't sign up for this!"

"Calm down," Sam says, still breathless from the fading contraction. "She didn't mean to do this." He turns his gaze on Erica, cowering in Dean's grip. "What spell did you use?"

"I can find it," Erica says, her eyes flitting anxiously at Dean and the book in his hand, her face pale but determined now that she's over the initial shock. "I can undo it. I swear I didn't try to curse you. This isn't what was meant to happen."

Finally convinced, Dean lets go of her wrist and holds out the book to her. "You better be able to fix this."

**To be continued...**


	7. Chapter 7

**Stalk Watch**

**A/N: We have finally reached the end. Thanks everyone for reading, reviewing, following and favourite-ing. I really appreciate it! :)**

**Chapter Seven**

Sam's apartment is going to be stained with the heavy scent of burning herbs for the next few years, Dean's sure of it. He's starting to taste it in the back of his throat and setting off fire alarms is becoming an increasing concern but really, that's the least of their problems.

To her credit, Erica seems to get a hold of herself once the book is in her hands and she immediately begins ordering Dean to get this and that while she carves sigils into a new set of candles and blesses them speedily.

Sam is pale and sweaty, lying on the couch, exhausted but filled with an inexplicable urge to move, which Dean forces into submission with threats of speeding up the labour. As it is, Dean's pretty sure they're nearing the end. The contractions are coming hard and heavy with barely a few minutes break in between, and Sam has resorted to biting down on a cushion because he can't stop himself from screaming anymore, despite the unwanted attention it could attract.

Once everything's together Dean sits by Sam's side on the couch, smoothes a damp washcloth over the kid's forehead and lets his brother break every bone in his hand. He's not sure whether he's being dramatic or not.

"At least it's not a monster," he says quietly as Sam groans and clenches his eyes shut, another contraction building up intensity. Gotta look on the bright side, right?

He pats Sam's hand uselessly and watches Erica work. Sometimes he's amazed by how ridiculous witchcraft is. Times like now, as he watches the girl turning widdershins three times because spinning in counter-clockwise circles actually works when you're reversing spells and how freaking crazy is that? She's concentrating intently, carefully sprinkling Vetiver over the re-lit coals now, but when she starts chanting, Dean sees exactly where she went wrong. Even Sam cracks his eyes open and looks at Dean in disbelief.

"Stop," Dean says, rising from the couch.

Erica halts, looking at him uncertainly.

"Have you ever actually studied Latin?" he asks doubtfully.

Erica glances at the page of the book she has open and back to Dean, flushing. "Uh, no," she admits sheepishly. "Not really, I kind of taught myself. I know what it means, just..."

"Not how to pronounce it," Dean finishes grimly, struggling to keep his growing frustration in check. No wonder the original spell went so utterly wrong. "Give me that."

He holds out his hand for the book and Erica passes it over obediently.

"I'll read, you repeat after me," he orders briskly, settling back down on the couch. Sam wilts as the contraction finally ebbs away, his face washed of colour. He looks like he's on the verse of passing out.

"Almost over now, kiddo," Dean says gently. "You just gotta hold on a little longer."

Sam makes a face that indicates hanging in there is nigh impossible task so Dean gets straight to it.

It takes an infuriatingly long time for him to relay the pronunciation to Erica, then for her to repeat it, stumbling over a few of the lines when Dean tries to speed it up, but they manage to make it through without anything bursting out of Sam's stomach and that's what matters.

The chanting comes to an end and Erica tosses a handful of herbs onto the coals, which immediately send out a plume of deep red smoke. The candles flare up, wax sizzling, and suddenly the whole room is filled with a blinding white light. Dean slams his eyes shut as the dazzling display threatens to burn out his retina, feels unnatural heat dancing over his skin, and a low hum builds up to a _zap_.

Everything falls silent.

Dean blinks away the splotches of light that skew his vision to see Sam doing the same. As one, they look down at his stomach. His normal, flat stomach. Sam yanks up the stretched-out t-shirt and runs his hand over the smooth skin like he can't believe it. There's no hint of stretchmarks, nothing left of the ordeal other than the weight Sam lost as the mystical 'baby' grew and the scent of candle wax and earthy herbs.

"It's gone," Sam breathes out. Dean thinks he hears a note of regret under the awe, but relief clogs his throat anyway. It's over and he didn't have to slice Sam open and dispose of a baby monster. This is pretty much the best outcome they could have hoped for.

"Dean," Sam says quietly, nodding at something over Dean's shoulder.

He turns to look. Erica is kneeling on the floor, snuffing out the candles with her thumb and forefinger, silent tears running down her face, and he's reminded that this isn't the outcome everyone wanted.

"I'll talk to her," Sam murmurs, determined despite how shaky he is when he pushes himself off of the couch. Of course, Sam probably understands what she's feeling right now better than anyone, and Dean bets she doesn't want the scary guy who dragged her in here looming over her. He takes the hint and makes himself scarce, figuring that it's about time for a beer anyway. He takes Erica's book with him and grabs a bottle from the fridge. Hovering in the kitchen, he watches Sam and Erica from the doorway. He doesn't mean to spy but he's not quite ready to let the kid out of his sight yet.

"I'm sorry," Sam says as he drops to his knees beside the girl. He snuffs out the last candle for her. "I know this isn't how you wanted things to turn out."

Erica shakes her head, rubbing the palm of her hand under her eyes. "I should be apologizing to you."

Sam shrugs, "You didn't mean for the spell to hit me. You couldn't have known that would happen."

"You're pretty calm for a guy who was pregnant five minutes ago," Erica notes, sniffing, but she seems to she seems to decide that she doesn't want to know anymore about why that is. "I'm gonna go. I think I should just... go. I'm really sorry."

Sam rises to his feet with her. "Will you be okay by yourself?"

"Yeah," Erica replies unconvincingly, swiping her palms down her face one more time. "It's stupid really. I just thought... thought maybe it would transfer to me somehow..." Her hands find her stomach automatically as she sighs dismally. "I was just really hoping there would be a baby."

"That's not stupid," Sam says as he follows her to the door. He lowers his voice and Dean gets the feeling that he's not supposed to hear this bit, that this is only for Erica and Sam. "For a while... I was kind of hoping there would be a baby too."

Erica stops with her hand on the doorknob, turns back slowly and searches Sam's face for something, Dean doesn't know what, but whatever she finds, she pulls Sam into a hug, wrapping her arms around him as she buries her face in his shoulder, squeezing tight for one quick moment. Sam barely has time to return the embrace before she's pulling away, tears sparkling in her eyes again.

"I'm so sorry," she says quietly, then turns and disappears out the door.

XXX

Dean ends up in Sam's bed that evening, too worried about what's going on in the kid's head to leave him alone. Maybe there wasn't a baby and maybe it's just Sam's hormones going crazy, but whatever, the loss is real and it obviously hurts, a lot.

Sam's not sleeping but he's not saying anything either, and Dean wondering whether he should start a chick-flick moment so Sam can talk this out, but he doesn't know where to begin. What can he even say? Sorry that the baby didn't exist? At least you can go back to being a normal college student now? Nothing seems right for this situation.

"I knew you were right," Sam says suddenly, flicking his gaze from the ceiling to Dean for just a moment. It's too dark to make out his expression but Dean bets he wouldn't like it. "I knew there wasn't a real baby."

Dean hears the 'but' without Sam needing to say it.

"What would I have done with it anyway?" Sam continues, like he's trying to convince himself that this is for the best. "It's not... it's not like I wanted a baby."

That hangs in the darkness. Dean thinks he's telling the truth, partly – a baby was never in Sam's plans, as far as Dean knows - but after the roller coaster Sam's body's been through, it's bound to be sending out some conflicting signals. Dean picks his words carefully; he doesn't want to make it sound like Sam's feelings are invalid but maybe an explanation will help. "You know, your hormones and shit must be freaking out right now, so if you're feeling, uh, crappy" - that doesn't seem to cover it - "it'll pass once your body remembers what normal is." He hopes. "I mean, if you did want it, at some point, it's understandable. I'd understand it, at least, if you wanted to talk about it."

Sam doesn't say anything for a long moment. Dean waits but in the end, all Sam does is sigh and roll over so his back is to Dean. "Lets just be glad it wasn't a monster," he says flatly.

XXX

Sam is just as quiet in the morning. Dean makes coffee and toast and Sam lets him fuss about with pillows and blankets until the kid's cocooned on the couch as if he really were recovering from a bad 'flu, even though Sam says he feels fine. Dean doesn't buy it. Sure, Sammy's not suffering through morning sickness anymore but Dean doesn't think he's even close to fine emotionally. He can tell that now is not the time to push though. Instead he switches on the TV and tries to act like he's engrossed so that Sam can have some time alone with his thoughts. Fifteen minutes later, Dean still has no idea what he's watching.

"I couldn't have done this without you," Sam says finally, staring down into his coffee mug. "Maybe Dad's right. Maybe college is a stupid idea."

He looks miserable and scared and hell no, Sam, after you worked so hard for this?

Dean sets his own coffee mug down on the table and frowns at his brother. "You listen to me, Sammy, this is not a stupid idea. I know I was a jerk about it when you said you were leaving but it was just a shock, okay? This is what you want and if you want it, then so do I." Who would've thought Dean would ever be convincing Sam to stay at college? He falters a little at the absurdity of it, but it's true. He just wants Sam to be happy. "You can't just give up because things got crazy for a while. I mean, before all this happened, you were happy, weren't you?"

Sam shrugs dejectedly, a picture of defeat huddled under the blankets on the couch. "I don't know. I like my classes but... I miss you and Dad all the time and I worry about you hunting without me. I'm not really good at making friends or... maybe I just shouldn't have left. I can't even protect myself from amateur wiccans."

"Even I couldn't figure it out until the evidence was right in front of me," Dean points out. "This was a seriously weird case, even by our standards. There's nothing wrong with needing some help."

Sam looks doubtful but a knock on the door halts any further conversation.

"I'll get it," Dean says automatically, already standing. Sam nods vaguely, still deep in thought, probably coming up with more reasons to give up this whole college idea, as if he's in any condition to be making big decisions right now.

He crosses the room and opens the door, entirely unsurprised to see Jess in the hallway. She's holding a plate of homemade chocolate chip cookies, held in place with cling film.

"I'm a terrible person," Jess states before Dean can say anything. "Or maybe a crazy person, I don't know. I'm really sorry about the other day, so uh..." She holds out the plate. "I'm a terrible, crazy person with cookies. Forgive me?"

Dean grins. "Of course," he says as he takes the plate, stepping back to let her in. He thinks he just found his most persuasive argument.

Jess's eyes widen in surprise and unmistakable delight when she sees Sam on the couch. The girl is so obvious, only Sam would need her attraction pointed out.

"You have a visitor, kiddo," Dean says, unnecessarily, as Jess steps inside. When Sam smiles at her, it's genuine, if a little shaky.

"So you're finally fit for company, huh?" Jess says lightly, inspecting him. "You look awful."

"You should've seen me yesterday," Sam says, with just a hint of an ironic smile curling his lips.

Jess crosses the room a little tentatively and perches on the arm of the couch. "I missed you," she says shyly.

Sam glances at Dean, who puts on his best 'I told you so' face, then comes up with a reason to give the two some privacy.

"Coffee, Jess?"

"God yes, milk and two, thanks," Jess says, with barely a glance in his direction.

"I missed you too," he hears Sam say.

Dean smiles to himself as he heads to the kitchen.

**The End**


End file.
